Soliloquy of a penis

This is an act of defiance against John, my supposed master. I have to speak up or to forever keep in me the wrath I have for him. He is in his bed this time, sleeping, tired, and, although I do not want to say this because he will never admit this even to himself, but I am saying this anyway, looking so defeated. From my view, I see a slob of a despicable human I do not want to have anything to do with.

I am taking this opportunity to expose him and to write a plaint against him. Against this man who shamed, devalued, trampled, disgraced, and sullied me with all imaginable baseness of this lifetime.

He’ll never forgive me after this, this is an act of betrayal, and I am well aware of that. But he has declared war against me; I am only retaliating.

I have been winning skirmishes, pretending not to give a damn when he needs me most, remaining limp and flaccid in moments where he has to prove his might, frustrating him until it reaches a point that he curses himself. I am also good at doing ambush attacks and staging guerrilla warfare when he least expects them; it can be anywhere, when he is at work, while he’s on a crowded train, during a meeting, or in occasions he is attempting to fool the world of his moral motives and untainted virtues. He is pathetic during these times, an obvious loser asking heaven to end the torment I am causing.

But while I am winning isolated, small battles he has been victorious in the major fronts of this war. I have been an unwilling participant in his cloak-and-dagger activities against the victims of his exploits. I was surreptitiously mobilized in his empire building when I am supposed to be a rebel destroying him from within. Being the sole fighter and general of the underground resistance I organized, I am losing my stake in this war. I sometimes question my reasons for going on with this fight as my defeat is looming; I can almost feel it, taste it.

John and I used to be best friends. He took care of me . I provided him pleasures all Literature is unable to adequately describe. In fact, even though he said nothing to me, I knew I was his most important friend, his most significant possession. And I knew he was more than proud of having something, an appendage, like me, attached to his body. Who wouldn’t? Come on, this world, as he always declares, is obsessed with the superlative. I am the biggest superlative.

I was with him when he reached nirvana and I never abandoned him when he fell down to his nadir. I remained faithful, except once; there was never a time I disappointed him, except once. I would relentlessly remain stiff and on my toes, for hours, if he’d ask for it. He was praised because of me, hailed because of me, sought because of me. I was he; he was I. We were one.

But things between us started to turn sour when one cold night, in one of the most emotional of nights for him, one of those nights humans refer to as life-changing, when the universe seems to have converged in a singularity, when he expected me to be there, I deserted him, figuratively. I was confronting my own issues that time, confused, empty. And that for him was tantamount to an unforgivable failure.

History does not remember the good things done, only the bad. And because it repeats itself, our mistakes are magnified, exaggerated, hyperbolized until they become unrecognizable. Until nothing is left but hatred.

The rift between us has widened since then; we realized we both have infinite irreconcilables. I feel being (ab)used all the time. He fears being caught unaware by my storming blitzkriegs. He hates me so much that he worships me, mockingly. He insults me by indulging me in his carnal escapades until I forget myself and be fatally overwhelmed by the experiences.

I feel like an automatic device run on double As batteries. I am also capable of feeling, this is something John does not recognize and will never recognize.

For this I hate John to my gut. For this I will inexorably continue with this war until he falls on his knees for my forgiveness.

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